Manual Override (Short)

Manual Override

  By Adriaan Brae

  Copyright © 2010, BraeVitae Inc.

  It was decidedly unnatural to watch Mars shrink to a bright point so quickly with no more acceleration than the 1/8g provided by the transport's thrusters.

  In the old days, I'd be struggling to breathe as the launch rail's powerful magnetic flux pushed the ship out of Mars orbit. Today, I sat comfortably in my euphemistically named 'pilot's chair' as the ship rode the slopes of a manufactured gravity well—essentially a ring of black holes orbiting a common center, parked in a wide orbit around Mars. Another ring, one of Earth's two, would provide most of the acceleration needed for capture into cis-lunar space at the end of my run.

  With the gravity assist, a brand-new pair of heavy-duty Boeing thrusters, and the current favorable Earth/Mars alignment, this trip would take less than 12 days. Far better than the 20 to 30 day transits of my youth. Certainly better than the miserable 3 month transits we'd made during the war. My body still bore the scars from nursing those old hulks back and forth.

  My wife had not been so lucky. After the war, the Earthers had not felt particularly obliged to provide medical support for the Martian combatants who had fallen prey to their tailored diseases. Information had come out haphazardly after the Beijing disaster, but by then it had been too late for many veterans.

  After Helen's death, with the kids busy leading their own lives, I'd found myself at loose ends. I figured signing up as a pilot again would keep me busy at least.

  * * *

  The required re-certification course was 7½ wasted hours in a stuffy room tucked behind the cargo section of Mars Company's spaceport offices. I endured because it was the only way to get back into a pilot's chair.

  The young man, who had come all the way from Earth, was very enthusiastic about the computer and control system 'upgrades' added to the old bulk-haulers since Virgin Transport had acquired them, along with the entire interplanetary transport division, from Mars Company. I had been less than impressed by it all except for the new twin 50,000kN Boeing thrusters. 50% more power than the old Olympic engines on paper and I'd bet someone who knew what they were doing could get even more out of them.

  I was already familiar with most of this, since I collected new ship specs the way some people collected commemorative plates, but I'd underestimated how many piloting features would be locked down and placed under exclusive computer control. The only way a pilot would get to do anything but dead-head would be if the ship somehow lost connection to the network and the internal navigation system agreed that the ship had deviated from the pre-planned flight path.

  The worst came at the end of the session, when the instructor caught my attention with a diffident, "Mr. Healy? Might I have a moment?" A very different tone from his borderline arrogance during the presentation.

  "Yes Mr. Andrews," I'd returned, removing myself from the rush for the exit. "What can I do for you?"

  "I just wanted to say it's been an honor teaching one of the Supply Corps. I recognized your name from the news. I'm so glad they've finally done something to recognize Martian men's contributions during the war."

  I think (hope?) I mumbled something reasonably polite and bolted for the door.

  The truth of the matter is that the entire thing had been a dog and pony show meant to underscore how much more open the modern Martian military was for men, mainly to drive recruitment. I suppose if I hadn't been so emotionally raw from Helen's death, I'd have been able to enjoy getting together with my old comrades. As it was, all I could see was another war looming on the horizon, this one even more senseless than the last.

  * * *

  6 days into the transit I realized I'd made a mistake. The lack of any meaningful work coupled with the near obscene Earther opulence of the freighter's single cabin left me far too much time to think.

  The ship's library was not much help. It probably contained everything I'd ever want to watch or read. Unfortunately, I couldn't find most of the classics and I got tired of the garbage that was presented to me. What wasn't boring, was offensive or downright disgusting. I'm pretty sure that some of the pornographic material I stumbled across wouldn't even have been legal on Mars, though I must admit my knowledge of decency laws was a few decades out of date.

  I was also completely disgusted by the pilot information system, or really, the lack of one. I hadn't expected to be able to control the ship manually, except in the most dire emergency, but I had at least thought I'd be able to see what was going on with the cargo pods, coolant, hull temps, particle counts, etc. Not to mention my core interest—getting up close and personal with the new Boeings. There did not appear to be any way to gain access to the D-5 data bus and the basic command interfaces I was used to from piloting the earlier D-3's, even in read-only mode. I'd assumed there would at least be a diagnostic port but I couldn't find anything resembling a connector. I'd even put the D-5 command console and diagnostic tools on my handcomp (just in case) but it looked like that had been a waste of time.

  Thankfully, even though there were no piloting controls to speak of, the sensor suite and navcomp visualization software were the best I'd ever seen. The data detail of the little portable ephemeris that Helen had ordered for me last Solstice had amazed me, but this navcomp's ephemeris was even better. It was also designed to update from the net in real time. If the mobile boudoir I was riding in actually had a pilot accessible airlock, I'd half expect anything I shoved out of it to show up on the ephemeris within minutes. I would have liked to start with whoever designed this cabin.

  The only thing keeping me going was the chance to catch a glimpse of a new Malika class fast-transport. I’d noticed while perusing the commercial shipping lists (yes, I know, and some people read obituaries) that my course on the final approach vector to the capture ring was going to parallel the main Earth/Saturn route at just the right time to see the MJ-7. We would be no more than 65,000km apart at closest approach. I'd never expected to be near such a beautiful ship. It came close to re-igniting my will to live.

  I spent an enjoyable few hours convincing the ship's visual sensors to associate themselves into an array. This would give me some extra magnification so I could get a good look at the fast-transport as we passed by each other just outside the Earth-Luna traffic control limit. I also linked the ship's sensor suite to the personal nav software on my handcomp to automate the process of finding the MJ, which would have been a real pain otherwise, given the limited functionality provided.

  * * *

  Something brought me out of one of the few sound sleeps I'd had on this trip.

  Unlatching myself from my bunk, I lurched over to land awkwardly by the console. I spent a few minutes staring at the displays, trying to see what might have triggered my inner pilot to full alarm, but the ship had recorded no change in accel or attitude.

  I chuckled as I came fully awake and then drifted over to the galley to fix myself a coffee. I was surprised this hadn’t happened earlier. For goodness sake, I've jumped out of bed more than once over the years, grounded on Mars, thinking that our house had just made an unexpected course change. Reassured, I latched myself back into bed for a couple more hours of sleep.

  * * *

  My first sight of the MJ-7 made me break out in a cold sweat. Not that there was anything wrong with the ship. With its sweeping curves and clean lines, it looked like something out of the science fiction stories of my youth. The problem was that it was at entirely the wrong bearing. If it was not for my auto-tracking software, and the relative proximity, I'd have missed it completely.

  The ship's fancy navcomp was completely useless. It continued to insist I was on-course, based on its internal navigational data, but I could no l
onger access the ephemeris because the net connection was not responding. Without the net it couldn't get the latest data, so it, in its infinite wisdom, decided to show me nothing but a series of useless 'let me diagnose your connection fault' prompts. I spent the next few minutes trying to get the connection working, but the system wouldn't let me access enough tools to even figure out the cause of the problem.

  Frustrated, I dropped the net access issue and set the ship's strobes to flash in the emergency pattern. This was probably an over-reaction but I wasn't piloting a personal flyer. This kind of tonnage could make a big mess if it wound up in the wrong place. Or at least, cost someone a lot of money. The MJ's computers would see my strobes and put a report up on the net. The company techs would likely have an easier time diagnosing the problem externally.

  * * *

  Fortunately for my peace of mind, I'd long been in the habit of keeping my own ephemeris data with me whenever possible. Knowing this, Helen had the ephemeris chip she'd bought me cleverly inserted in my wedding ring. Since the latest fad was to build a carbon lattice around memory chips anyway, it had added a pleasingly retro look to the traditional red-gold band. Helen had joked that now I could keep both my loves with me at all times.

  Blinking away my decidedly unhelpful tears, I linked into my ring's ephemeris from my handcomp and pulled up the current coordinates for Earth, adjusted for my current position. Accessing the ship's visual sensors manually, I entered the coordinates, but no luck. In fact, widening the field a bit, it looked like the completely wrong patch of sky.

  I groaned—of course. Some Earther equipment still used the archaic Earth based equatorial coordinate system, whereas my ephemeris used the standard Jupiter based ecliptical system. A few minutes work on the handcomp sufficed to translate the ephemeris coordinates into something the sensor system could use. This got me in the right area, but Earth was almost a tenth of an arcsecond off from where it should be. I sat back and stared at the navcomp projection, starting to get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  "That's assuming my current position is correct..."

  I calculated a high-precision bearing for Earth, then refocused the visual sensors on the MJ, and did the same thing. This gave me a rough idea as to my true location. Using that, I picked up Luna (a dim point from this vantage, but good enough) and confirmed the bearing.

  "Fuck!" My voice sounded loud in the silence of the cabin, suddenly making me feel alone in a way I'd not felt for the entire trip.

  "Fucking shit!" I pushed my palms hard together on either side of my head, trying to quell the rising tide of anger. I could not afford to act like a temperamental male now. I was definitely off-course, possibly dangerously off-course, and I needed to be calm, rational, and methodical.

  I growled out my old mantra: "Testosterone is of no advantage when math and accurate typing are all that stand between life and death."

  I hammered in a rough approximation of a reciprocal burn that would get me back close to my previous course, but when I tried to execute the commands, the computer rejected them. Since it considered us to be on-course, I, as the pilot, was not allowed to take us off-course.

  A sudden wave of claustrophobia hit and I found myself starting to hyperventilate. With some effort, I managed to control my breathing and get my mind back on task.

  "Calm down Austin." I panted. "Let's not panic over nothing."

  Space is a lot more empty than full. Sure, I might break a dozen laws and regulations, but the chances of a random malfunction causing a serious incident were pretty low.

  "Someone's eventually going to notice that I'm off-course, right?"

  The universe failed to grant me any immediate comfort, but at least my outbursts had helped clear the building fog of frustration and anger. I picked up the handcomp again and started calculating what my present course might intersect.

  * * *

  I'm sure the sound of my harsh breathing filled the cabin, but I couldn't hear it over the pounding of blood in my ears. Cold prickles of sweat covered my body. "This can’t be an accident."

  I couldn’t be precisely sure, since the malevolent machine controlling my destiny and that of potentially thousands of others could change its acceleration at any time, but the present course appeared to be a slingshot maneuver around the ring rather than through. They used to call these ring-passes threading the needle. At interplanetary speeds, a ship would be past the ring before any human could react. Assuming the computers, that should have warned them about its divergent course hours ago, were still lying to them.

  Sitting in the cone of course probabilities leaving the slingshot, given my current entry vector and acceleration range, was one of the larger NorAm habitats. My ephemeris included population data. The number 3,560 hit me like a punch to the gut, but further than that, I could see all the useless deaths that would follow in the war that would undoubtedly follow this kind of atrocity.

  I kicked up from the over-padded pilot's chair and pushed off across the cabin. I needed to burn off some of the adrenaline flooding my system so I could think. I grimaced. Humans, particularly men, were just not designed for the modern world of spaceships and computers. Right now, my glands were telling me I should be running from the lion, or bashing someone's skull in with a stone axe.

  "So it's bad. Really bad." I muttered. "What can we do?" I ping-ponged back and forth across the cabin that had seemed so overly spacious before. Now it felt like it was closing in on me.

  "The computer isn’t about to let me override it." I'd poked around in it enough trying to diagnose the network connection errors. "Damned Earther piece of crap!"

  I was struck by an idea and just about forgot my mid-flight turn, ending up taking the brunt of the impact on my shoulder.

  "The computer is an Earth company re-fit, but the cargo frame is just an old D-5 hull with this fancy cabin stuck in its guts. I bet they didn't remove the old D-5 command interfaces. They probably just re-routed the control leads to this fancy new machine and dropped in a software interface."

  I sailed over to the command console and started to prod at the paneling. It was not designed to be easily removed, but using my little pocket knife and a spoon from the galley I was able to pry off the decorative panels around the computer.

  There were a few wiring harnesses, but further examination and testing showed them to be connections to the entertainment system, galley, and console chair. Nothing vital, and nothing connected directly to the D-5 frame. The entire computer body was protected behind thick composite armor plate. I'd seen setups like this before on military ships, but I guessed this was intended to prevent the very thing I was trying to do—take over the computer from inside the cabin, not to prevent battle damage.

  I let loose a hysterical laugh.

  "Wouldn't want the pilot taking control of the ship. They might hurt someone!"

  I hung in the middle of the cabin for a few minutes, staring at nothing. I was beyond anger or frustration now. I could feel the minutes ticking down in the back of my head. Given my velocity, how long would it be before I wouldn't have enough delta-V to clear the station, even if I did take control?

  Thinking about the D-5 architecture had also reminded me about the cargo pod detachment system. It was designed to make cargo handling easier and safer for the ship. Rather than relying on tugs to connect with the containers, possibly jarring the ship frame with too much force, the pod grapples could be used to gently separate the cargo pods from the ship allowing them to drift to the waiting tug.

  Anyone smart enough to plan this escapade must have thought of pushing all the cargo pods out from the ship shortly before impact, exponentially increasing the contact area and destructive potential. If I was going to do something, I needed to do it before the pod separation, or it would be a waste of time.

  I grabbed my handcomp and pulled up the D-5 specs.

  "If I was going to run a conduit to patch the old D-5 controls into this fancy machine," I waved in
the general direction of the dismantled navcomp. "Where would it go?"

  I mentally oriented myself to the frame. The head and galley had the best chances of conforming to similar structures from the old D-5 cabin, since pipes are harder to run than fibers. Yes. The locations matched.

  I moved over to where the navcomp would have been on the D-5. This area was now occupied by the huge entertainment screen. The new navcomp was situated farther forward where the old manual piloting controls would have been. On the D-5, all those controls ran though the navcomp which was positioned deeper in the ship, closer to the main control bus. The old D-5 control junction should be right behind that screen.

  * * *

  The carbon-crystal blade of my knife made short work of the thin plastic display screen, easily carving out a section where I expected the junction to be. The wall proved to be made of simple hull-composite. Armor composite was ceramic based, heavy and expensive. Hull composite was cheap carbon fiber and resin with a honeycomb plastic core.

  Using the internal beams from the panels I'd pulled off the navcomp, the metal spoon, my pocket knife, and tape from the first aid kit, I bodged together a crude spear. Hooking my legs around the entertainment console chair, I used my entire body to drive the diamond point of my knife through the thin, but incredibly stiff, inner skin of the cabin wall.

  Perforating all around the perimeter of a roughly square patch of wall took a huge effort and I wasn't exactly in top shape. Tiny globules of sweat were flying off my forehead in all directions before I was done. Once through the inner wall, it was far easier to saw through the foam-filled honeycomb links of the core.

  I paused before starting on the outer wall. Ideally, the original outer hull of the D-5 would still hold enough pressure that the cabin wouldn't immediately depressurize, but I had no illusions as to its general space-worthiness. It had been hard enough to keep the seals intact when the D-5's were new and the lives of the crew depended on them. Now, I'd be surprised if one of the hatches didn't blow right off when hit with the pressure from the inner cabin.

  My first puncture in the outer wall was greeted with a high-pitched whistling, closely followed by a bang. Shoved forward toward the hole by a sudden thrust of air, I cracked my elbow on the wall and mashed my knuckles against the sharp filler honeycomb. The square-ish chunk of outer hull I'd cleared had ripped along two sides when I'd broken the structural integrity of the carbon composite skin. It was now flopping loose in the sluggish air current venting from the ship.